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Or maybe I’m just fooling myself again and he’ll stick my corpse in the back dumpster.
“What’s your name?” I ask, hoping he isn’t a psycho.
“People call me ‘Hobo.’”
Losing my smile, I mutter, “That doesn’t seem particularly nice.”
“No, it’s my road name.”
When I just stare at him, he explains, “My birth name is Tommy Clark. People called me that when I was a kid. These days, I go by Hobo.”
“I’m Xenia.”
Hobo grins and gestures at my name tag.
“Oh, I guess that was obvious.”
“Still good to hear it out loud. Just to know how it’s pronounced.”
“My parents chose the name because it means hospitality.”
Hobo’s icy gaze warms under my explanation before going cold again when he asks, “What’s the name of that realtor?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“If I buy land, I won’t want to hire a shady fucker.”
His words seem silly. The man walked out of the woods. He’s clearly homeless. People even call him that cruel name. Despite knowing he can’t afford to buy land, I want him to stick around and talk to me more.
“Sullivan Pierce.”
“Huh. I didn’t even know that person existed. Surprised you didn’t work with Callie Macready.”
Fidgeting with my apron, I shrug. “Her name came up first on my internet search, but she was very busy. Her assistant even warned she might not get back to me right away. I figured that was a sign.”
“Well, you sure are pretty, Xenia, but you’ve got bad instincts. Callie would have treated you right.”
His words steal my confidence. With Callie Macready, I was mostly intimidated by the beautiful smiling blonde in the online ad. My insecurities led me to pick a realtor who took advantage of my cluelessness. Maybe I deserve to lose my business.
Even feeling like a loser, I repeat Hobo’s words in my head and zero in on the “pretty” part. Men rarely say those things to me. Well, not handsome men, anyway.
And despite being down on his luck, Hobo is very good-looking. His full lips hint at a smile. His strong cheekbones beg to feel my fingers brush across them. Oh, and his gaze is simply hypnotic. Lined with the thickest lashes, his blue eyes don’t see past me. Instead, I feel wrapped in their power and held up for his scrutiny.
“Do you want more coffee?” I ask as I consider the logistics of dating a homeless man.
My cheeks go hot at my ridiculous fantasy. Worse is how I’m creating a new, bound-to-fail dream. I need to aim for what I can actually have rather than fill my head with more out-of-reach fantasies.
Several days ago, my landlady’s grandson, Francis, flirted with me. I got the feeling he might ask me out soon. A man at the accountant’s office also hinted at dinner.
Neither one is nearly as handsome nor commanding as the one before me. Yet, they make sense. Instead, I’m already pining over a future disappointment.
Even at my age, I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’m the queen of first dates and one-night stands.
“This isn’t a good location,” Hobo says after finishing his second cup and tapping it for a refill. “You got snookered good by that asshole.”
“Well, there’s nothing I can do about it now,” I mutter as I fill his cup.
“Can I try one of your cupcakes?”
